


since i've wandered through your place

by bottleseason



Category: Secret History - Donna Tartt
Genre: Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Sharing a Bed, i didn't change richard's inner monologue all that much so he's still kind of an asshole
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 11:08:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29367543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bottleseason/pseuds/bottleseason
Summary: on francis' house, richard wakes up in the middle of the night to the sound of steps in the kitchen.
Relationships: Francis Abernathy/Richard Papen
Kudos: 20





	since i've wandered through your place

I can't quite remember what I was doing that afternoon, but I know the hellish noises coming from across the corridor were beginning to drive me insane. So, when Francis called and asked if I could help him catch up with last week's work, I didn't even bother to mention he knew I was just as behind as him. Feeling particularly petty, I stole the first bottle I found on the fridge and shoved it inside my jacket, hopping I had struck the source of my afflictions with this small theft.  
Already in the car with Francis, I unveiled it to find a dizzying swirl of pink, one of those abhorrent flavored vodkas that could only be attributed to underage drinking or a severe lack of taste or both. It made the both of us laugh at first, but then quickly divulged into a masochistic game of who could bear to swallow the most of it without making a face when we dropped all pretense of actually studying and just slouched around in the couch, sometimes playing some inane card game or watching bad TV.  
I woke up with the sound of the floorboards creaking and with a slight pain in my back. There was a pillow under my head but it wasn't enough to soften the hard wood digging into my neck, and the blanket thrown over me was way too heavy for that time of year.  
The steps were now close to the kitchen and I got up to find a trembling Francis leaning over the counter.  
"Francis," I called. He jumped as if he didn't notice me coming in. His slender figure was now bent over, seeming in pain, his hands clenched the marble as if to find balance.  
I went to the fridge and filled a cup of water for him, the only clean glass a thick tumbler with a heavy bottom, and held it out to him.  
"Give me something stronger, will you?" he pleaded, trying his best at a smile.  
"Absolutely not."  
When his knuckles brushed against my finger he recoiled as if electrocuted, and the cup would've fallen had he not quickly catch it with his other hand.  
I crossed my arms and watched him take small sips from the cup, barely managing to not spill the water. How could I've ever seen him as that mythological creature, stalking the severe halls of the university, a ghost, a projection of the mere thought of academia, more fae than man. This thin, frail figure in front of me now had the weird effect of taking away the enchantment of those last weeks, revealing this place's timelessness for the fallacy it was, weathered wood but new bricks.  
"It wasn't this bad the first time" I commented, and he replied, his voice barely more than a whisper "The worst had passed when I called."  
My gaze jumped around this giant house now, how empty it was. How Francis constantly brought us here, or crashed somewhere closer to the city. The rest of us always held such contempt for him, delicate, nervous François, unable to keep the cool like the rest of us, almost indecent considering he was safer than Henry, or Charles or even Camilla. But then Henry could retreat to his own world of ancient tomes, and the twins to each other, and he would stay here, not even able to get numb into someone else's arms. No, he only had his vices and our pseudo-cult in these nights where he felt he was going to die.  
For that matter, so did I.  
I reached out, slowly, pulled him towards me. He froze for a second, his hands held out in the air. Then he broke down crying. I don't think I ever saw Francis crying. Tearing up, maybe, but never this violent sobbing, shaking with sheer despair. I held him closer and he pressed his face hard against my shoulder. I tried to push away my instinct to resent him for this weakness; He had never held my own against me.  
However long we spent there, he eventually pulled away. He wiped some remaining tears away from his face examined them on his fingers.  
"Hey, uh. Do you wanna go up with me?" I didn't interrupt, but he immediately stitched "I won't try anything, I just... I just really don't want to sleep alone."  
"Ok."  
"Really?" he looked up, and I nodded.  
The upstairs were just as impressive as the rest of the house, but also felt more ghoulish. Tasteful, but impersonal, paintings, gorgeous wood cabinets whose cleanliness made them ever more haunting, a beautiful little space with leather chairs that was clearly barely used, empty crystal ashtrays and showroom decanters and wine glasses. Francis' room was somewhat smaller than I expected, and though he wasn't the most private person I noticed with a shock I had never been here before. It made me wonder if anyone else had been here before. The thought stung, for some reason, and I was almost compelled enough to ask when I saw the rosary sitting on his nightstand. It was a pretty thing, pearls and delicate gold braids, utterly bizarre in this place. If Francis took note of my interest, he didn't show, instead going up to the side of the bed. I caught a glimpse of the vodka, half a pint still there, and wondered why after we finished our deranged game of chugging directly from the bottle, he hadn't resorted to the way better liquor in those cherry wood cabinets downstairs.  
"We should probably change the bed sheets" I murmured, "Not good to sleep in all this sweat."  
As I helped him take out the sheets he threw the in a chest at the end of the huge king sized bed. It probably wasn't a good idea either, but at least I couldn't smell the pungent odor anymore and the sleep was beginning to set in. I just kicked out my shoes and pants and crawled under the covers, Francis already at the other end, at the very edge. I observed him at this low light, all delicate shapes and more ivory than usual, he looked incredibly smaller. Mostly motionless, the only thing that gave away that he was not asleep was his irregular breathing. A vein in his neck pulsed slightly with the ghost of sobs, and I had the impulse to press it down with my finger, hold it until it stopped.  
Instead, I pulled myself a little closer and laced my arm around his waist. He didn't react initially, but then turned around slowly to face me.  
I tried to imagine what this moment would feel like with Camilla and disconcertingly couldn't, the mere idea seemed absurd. Francis look was a strange thing, almost scared, uncertain. He looked so fragile that I felt like I could break him into tiny bits if I so wished.  
I slid my hand under his chin, his eyes enormous, and held his face ever closer to mine. When our noses were just a hair away from touching, he closed his eyes and kissed me. I kissed back. When he pulled away, there were the hint of tears in his eyes, and he buried his face in the nape of my neck.  
I stroked his hair slightly, rested my chin on the top of his head. For the first time in weeks I slept through the rest of the night.

**Author's Note:**

> apparently i'm only capable of writing stuff for media i'm at least dubious about. who would've thunk.
> 
> anyway, the secret history is an overly-long mess with just a bunch of horrible people, i was miserable through 50% of it and yet i almost picked it up again as soon as i finished it. none of the conceivable couples are anything close to healthy but here i am anyway.
> 
> it was actually quite fun to get this little thing out of my brain.


End file.
